


Aetheris Avidi

by opticalprism



Category: Ballet Shoes - Noel Streatfeild
Genre: Air Transport Auxiliary, Backstory, Bechdel Test Pass, Childhood Dreams, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Pilots, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opticalprism/pseuds/opticalprism
Summary: “Might hire a car tomorrow, Petrova, and find a house near an aerodrome where you can study.”the unconventional road to an unconventional dream.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> inspired by deepdarkwaters' suggestion that Petrova might be in the ATA. the title is ATA's motto and means 'eager to fly.' researching the ATA gave me a ton of aviation and women-trailblazer feelings. and of course - bechdel test pass!
> 
> to my recipient deepdarkwaters, hello, and i hope you like this.  
> note: could not find exact birth years for the Fossil sisters, so this is not as canonically chronologically accurate as I would have liked. I have never read _Code Name Verity_ , but perhaps you'll catch the little namedrop.

_“Might hire a car tomorrow, Petrova, and find a house near an aerodrome where you can study.”_

In that moment, Petrova was the happiest she had been since the day Mr Simpson first asked her whether she would like to change into some old clothes and help him fix a car. (She had only tightened a nut that day and even with two hands, did not have the strength to tighten it as much as she should, but it was the first time she had wanted to do something apart from mathematics.)

In the chaotic hours that followed, Petrova watched Pauline’s agent have urgent discussions in low voices with Sylvia, Gum, and Nana and watched Pauline stare at her hands in confusion. She watched Posy float around the house, in a sort of Mannoff-induced trance, launching into a _pas de bourrée_ or _pas de chat_ to get across the hall.

Mrs Simpson came up to her as she sat in the drawing-room after a similarly chaotic dinner.

“So you’ll become a pilot. Are you excited?”

Petrova was silent. After years of being the _least_ (the least beautiful, the least like a proper girl, the least talented dancer) in Important Things (earning money to support the family) from so many people (Sylvia, Nana, Theo, the instructors at the Academy, her employers), she had resigned her dreams to be... dreams. Reality, like dinner, was settling in, and Petrova did not know whether reality would change. But to speak so plainly would be ungrateful and Petrova would not be ungrateful, even if she did not dare to hope.

“Perhaps they might not let me become one,” she said, instead. There were not many women pilots. Petrova only ever saw photos and articles about male pilots.

“That would be unfortunate.’

'Well,' continued Mrs Simpson, after a pause, “If flying doesn’t work out, John will be happy to have another pair of hands in the garage. Perhaps you could train to become a mechanic, and we could pay you a wage.”

“I could still earn money?"

“Dancing in theatres is not the only thing a teenager can do to earn money.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Petrova’s face. “That would be nice,” she said. “Thank you.”

It occurred, then, to Petrova, that although Mr and Mrs Simpson clearly liked children, they did not have any of their own. She thought of Mrs Simpson spending hours whipping the frills for her and Pauline’s organdie frocks, the August after she turned twelve. She thought of Mrs Simpson cooking for her and Mr Simpson after they returned from the garage every Sunday. Mrs Simpson never said much, but she was _there_ , and Petrova felt a strange, sudden rush of emotion.

“If.” she stopped. “If Gum settles near an aerodrome, may I write to you?”

“Of course.” Mrs Simpson smiled. “Receiving and sending letters is always nice.”

* * *

 

Petrova did not hope, so it was a surprise when, at breakfast, Gum told her to change into something that would ‘last a proper day out.’

“Where are we going?”

Gum made an impatient sound. “To the airport, of course!”

Petrova had first read about Croydon airport in the newspapers. In her mind, it was as mystical and charming a place as British explorers might have viewed the Far East, and her eyes lit up.

“Can we see aeroplanes take off?”

“Why wouldn’t we?” demanded Gum. “Dear me, perhaps Pauline and Sylvia may be on a plane soon.”

Nana sniffed and muttered something about flying being a man’s job, but for once, Petrova felt no papercut hurt. She was going to visit an airport. Even if she couldn’t learn to be a pilot, she could learn to be a mechanic.

* * *

 

The airport smelt of oil and smoke and emitted a constant whir of turning gears. The airport was heaven.

Despite Gum’s insistence that all they had to do was drive to the airport and walk, they couldn’t get right up to the runway fences. Uniformed guards paid no heed to Gum and firmly ordered them not to trespass.

As Petrova stared at the horizon, a squat plane descended into view, heading for the airport. “Bristol Jupiter Fighter,” she whispered, thinking of the picture-books that the doctors had borrowed from the library for them.

“What’s that?”

“Bristol Jupiter Fighter,” recited Petrova, the way she used to recite multiplication tables. “Derived from the fighter planes used in the Great War. Currently used as a trainer plane.” The plane descended further, before disappearing beyond their view, blocked by a grove of trees. As Petrova stared at the last spot she could see the plane, she remembered Posy, who was desperate to go to Czechslovakia to learn from Mannoff by any means possible, and thought she understood.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, hypnotised by the sleek lines of planes ascending and descending.

“Petrova.”

She turned. Gum was standing several paces back.

“Let’s see what you can do.”

* * *

 

She was, as it turned out, far too young to become a pilot. She was also a girl, and she hated how men at the airport thought that it meant she could not work as a pilot. Learn how to fly? It was expensive, but she could learn, they said, with an indulgent smile as though she were a child with a passing fancy. But work as a pilot? That was a man's job.

“Pack of nonsense, that,” said Gum, as they left the airport. “You’ll go back and learn when you’re 18, Petrova, and be a better pilot than any of them.”

To someone who had spent their lives walking to ‘save the penny’, hundreds of pounds for a ground license was a terrifying thought. Surely Pauline’s money could not support everyone. Gum grinned, revealing yellowed, uneven teeth.

“I have my own money too, you know,” he said, scratching at his short salt-and-pepper stubble. “I should have left Sylvia more money. No need for this dancing.”

She wondered whether he also disliked dancing.

“Dancing is nice,” she tried.

Gum snorted. “I saw you dance last night and I saw you watching the aeroplanes. I’m old, but I’ve not lost my brain yet. You don’t like dancing.”

(Upon Sylvia's request, the three of them had briefly danced for Gum before dinner.)

She liked Gum, but she had only known him for less than a day, and Petrova did not trust easily. "Dancing is nice. I earned money."

Gum looked at her for a moment and gruffly patted her shoulder. “Good girl.”

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was New Year’s Day, 1940.

The War to End All Wars clearly had not ended all wars, because here they were, in the midst of a second world war. But today, 8 women were allowed to work as pilots.

The Air Transport Auxiliary’s job was to transport planes from factories to maintainence units, thus freeing up Royal Air Force pilots to fly planes in combat.

Petrova stared at the black-and-white photos of the 8 women. They were, in an instant, her heroines.

There would be intense pressure and scrutiny, she knew. Most men thought that women would not be good pilots. (When Petrova had finally taken her ground license, at the age of 18, she held her own comfortably amongst men her age and older. It was still a point of pride for her)

But, perhaps, if these women, experienced aviators all (Petrova had read their short biographies so many times that she could almost memorise them), proved their worth, perhaps... perhaps... the ATA might recruit more women and perhaps... Petrova could fly.

* * *

 

It had taken a few rounds of applications and a few heartbreaks but Petrova Fossil was, as of a few minutes ago, officially an Air Transport Auxiliary pilot.

There was a good contingent of women now, thanks to Captain Pauline Gower’s tireless efforts.

She was in uniform, the single stripe of gold signalling her rank as Third Officer. Captain Gower had just pinned the ATA’s wings upon her chest. And tomorrow... tomorrow, she would begin training to qualify to fly Class 1 planes.

After the ceremony, the woman who had stood next to Petrova introduced herself. She was tall and broad-shouldered. “I’m Lynn,” said the woman. Petrova could not place her accent.

“Petrova. Nice to meet you.”

Over a dinner of war rations, Petrova learnt that Lynn was from Australia. Sydney, to be exact. Petrova briefly wondered whether, one day, she might be able to fly from London to Sydney.

“I miss Australia and Britain isn't my country, but I’ll do anything to fly.”

Petrova understood.

* * *

 

It amazed Petrova how quickly the women pilots bonded and became a sisterhood of sorts. She missed Pauline and Posy and worried about them, but here were women, most of them older than her, who shared her obsession with flying even though they had come from all backgrounds. Some were rich, some were poor. Some were not even British.

* * *

 

As varied as the women pilots were, the men were even more varied. Every single woman pilot was at peak fitness and had no physical limitations. However, the men ranged from those that might have become combat pilots to those who were disqualified from flying for the RAF due to physical limitations. However, as the war dragged on, aviators were desperately needed, and these men were accepted into the ATA.

* * *

 

Although Petrova adored her fellow women pilots, she felt a strange kinship with one of the men. He’d applied to the RAF multiple times, but had been rejected. (She told him that she'd applied for the ATA thrice before she was accepted). He earned his license by scraping together savings from his job as an engineer. Like Petrova, he too had tried to study for his ground license as a child. His name was James.

* * *

 

Flying was hard work. Winters were cold, seats and levers tended to be fitted to the size and reach of a man (most women were, on average, smaller than the average man), amenities were limited, and schedules were brutal. Yet, Petrova felt a strange sense of contentment, as though she could do this forever.

One day, in the barracks, Petrova admitted her strange contentment to Lynn.

Lynn exhaled. “Do you ever feel guilty that the only reason we’re allowed to fly is because there’s a second world war?”

“Sometimes,” (Truth be told, Petrova was usually too tired to feel guilty.)

Lynn’s lips twisted into a grimace. “We’ll see how it is after the war.”

“Maybe our daughters can fly,” volunteered Maddie, another pilot who was two cohorts senior to Lynn and Petrova.

Petrova felt a sudden, hot flash of anger. “We’ll do so well that they’ll have no choice but to let us fly after.”

(It was naive, she knew. And she knew that Lynn and Maddie, who were 3-5 years her senior, knew it too. But they had to hope.)

* * *

The day Petrova qualified to fly Class 4 planes (the highest class that women were allowed to qualify in then), she tore through the barracks and the mess hall, looking for her friends.

"I qualified!" she cried.

Lynn hugged her and began making a mental table.

"Time to run a betting pool on when Petrova gets to actually fly a Class 4 plane."

Petrova laughed ruefully. They could be called upon to fly any plane in any of the classes they were qualified for, at any time, depending on supply and demand. It was entirely likely that the most time she might spend in a Class 4 plane was when she had been training to qualify for it.

Captain Gower, passing by, heard their exchange.

"I'll try to schedule you in for one ASAP, Fossil. Don't let me down." But her eyes twinkled and after more than a year of being in the ATA Petrova knew that here was a woman who would fight for her fellow women, who would be harsh on them when the time called for it, and who, ultimately, _cared_.

"More planes with twin engines," said Petrova, her fingers already itching to get back to a joystick. "Can't wait."

* * *

 

The ATA’s call sign was “Lost Child.”

“Rather appropriate,” said James, one day, apropos of nothing.

“Are you saying we’re all lost?” laughed Petrova.

They had just entered the mess hall. James gestured to the ragtag groups milling around and they began categorising some broad groups. Boys as young as sixteen roped in to help clean planes. Men with one arm or one leg. Many had lost that limb in combat - some had lost theirs in the first world war. Women - so many of whom were, Petrova supposed, lost, in their own way. Women who loved a career that most thought they were not fitted for. And men, like James, who had dreamed of becoming a pilot and probably never expected that it would only come true because so many other men were dead.

Petrova supposed James was right. They were all, in their own way, lost.

(And perhaps, the countries at war were lost, too.)

* * *

 

November 1945. The war was over, the ATA was being disbanded, and Petrova and her women comrades worried about whether they would be able to make a career out of being pilots. In the background, there was a general bustle of address-exchanging activity.

And, suddenly, irrationally, Petrova thought about James, and how, over the past 3 years, they could talk about almost anything in the snatched minutes between shuttling back and forth between nearby airports, usually piloting a different type of plane every single time.

Various ATA men and women had struck up non-platonic relationships amongst themselves and with others they came into contact with through work. But James had never indicated anything in that direction and Petrova had been too busy living a childhood dream (albeit one with far more death and war than she could have ever imagined, even if she had not seen most of it with her own eyes.) to think of such matters.

But perhaps...

She walked over to where he stood. She did have his home address (a town in Lincolnshire) and he had hers from a round of address-exchanging the day before, but she wondered whether he would write. He nodded at her, and they began talking. Not that Petrova was particularly aware of what she was saying.

She was aware that her time was almost up, and drew in a breath.

“Perhaps... we could write? You said you’ll train to become a commercial pilot, and I’d like to hear about that.”

“That would be nice,” he said. “You could tell me about cars.”

(For now, at least, Petrova was going back to work in Mr Simpson's garage.)

"I wish I could work on Grand Prix cars," she admitted. 

"European Championship?" he grinned. "Think they'll restart it now the war's over?"

Prior to the war, they had both followed the European Championship. The cars' speeds were perhaps, the closest one could get to flying while on land.

"I hope so."

* * *

 

It was New Year’s Day, 1947. Just over a year since the ATA had been disbanded. And Petrova had a handful of letters with postage stamps of all sizes. Pauline's from America, Lynn's from Australia, Maddie's from France, Posy's from some city in Europe (wherever the nomadic dancers were then), Mrs Simpson's from just a few kilometers away (Petrova had began writing to Mrs Simpson when she was in the ATA, and somehow, Petrova felt no need to stop even after she returned to her home with Gum in London). The mail had come on Boxing Day along with a dozens of new fossil specimens for Gum. Unlike Gum, who had instantly taken to examining every single new specimen, Petrova was savouring her letters one at a time, like precious bonbons. Soon, she would begin writing replies until her hand ached. 

She looked down at the one letter she had yet to open. It was irrational to feel nervous about this when she had, somehow, never been nervous about flying planes in war.

She opened the letter, hoping.

 

  
_I’ll have a 48-hour layover at Croydon starting 1400 on the 10th. I’ll see you._

Petrova wondered what sort of car she should fix with James this time. She thought of the last time his schedule had aligned with hers.

_”It’s my time off and you’re making me work. Terrible.”_

_“You like the work and I_ am _paying you. I don't see the problem”_

_“Only with food.”_

_“I don’t hear you complaining._

In her room, Petrova smiled, her eyes darting to the stripes she'd retired with.

First Officer Petrova Fossil. ATA.


End file.
